The scribbles of the non reliable pen.

By Avery Collins and Dylan Vaz

(this is another of those alternating-sentences things. We didn't really stick to the "one sentence at a time thing," but who cares.)

The hallway was of such immense length that the walls, floor, and ceiling met at a single point in both directions, doors all along the way. Numbers were a rust-yellow jumbled in no specific order, as if each door had been rearranged over time. I was oddly familiar with this. I began walking, trying every door, only to find each one locked, as it was not meant for me. This place isn't for me, it isn't for us either. You and I we are those people. My curious gait quickly became a fervent gallop, a raving search for my door, our number. I am moving too fast, I think I'm going the wrong way, my anxiety is quickly approaching its peak. My lips are now bleeding from my impatience gnawing. I give up our search, seat myself upon the floor with distinct exasperation. My door opens behind us. WHy did you call this our door. This is not my door, not your space. This opening vaguely resembles that floral pattern, that one I despise, this cannot be it. My hatred of the door bleeds to the rest, they sicken me. I don't want to see them, you make them blink away, changing the substance of this bleak reality. We can continue to change this reality over and over, it will make no difference you have no power. I'm just repeating text, you are just clearing your throat, keep going its still itching. He stands, her eyes closed to their surroundings, nothing exists to me. Now we can begin. Make the move...take a step you cunt, open your eyes you coward. We cannot hop away from this, let's try skipping. I am a child, crippled by my old old age. You no longer exist, we are finally at peace.
The number is seventy-six, sixty seven, six, seven, I can't remember. You shouldn't have played that game.



(Don't worry, there is more, but we felt it worked better separated into to separate Chapter 1s.)